


Mindful Eating, Slow Food

by Archetype_ElectraHeart



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Pre-Slash, kind of food porn, non-sexual voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-02
Updated: 2015-12-02
Packaged: 2018-05-04 12:03:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 869
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5333426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Archetype_ElectraHeart/pseuds/Archetype_ElectraHeart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The streets of New York smelled like roasting chestnuts, as they had every winter since Jaime was a child, but inside the house it suddenly smelled of oranges.</p><p>Brienne bought them by the bag from a produce stand on the way home from Myrcella’s school, eating one, sometimes two a day. She stood at the sink and peeled them with a butter knife, creating a spiral of orange rind that she ran through the garbage disposal, releasing the scent into the whole kitchen. She ate them slowly and methodically, sometimes standing at the kitchen counter, sometimes sitting in the living room while watching cartoons with Tommen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mindful Eating, Slow Food

**Author's Note:**

> Although this little ficlet is set in the The Nanny 'verse, I don't think you need to be familiar with it for this to make sense. Essentially, Brienne is living with Jaime and Tyrion and acting as Myrcella and Tommen's nanny. This takes place fairly soon after she moves in. Since it is very much from Jaime's POV it doesn't quite fit within The Nanny itself, so voila-- one shot.
> 
> (AKA I eat a lot of oranges in the winter and my roommates have previously commented on these very things and I needed to edit something that was not my Master's thesis.)

The streets of New York smelled like roasting chestnuts, as they had every winter since Jaime was a child, but inside the house it suddenly smelled of oranges.

Brienne bought them by the bag from a produce stand on the way home from Myrcella’s school, eating one, sometimes two a day. She stood at the sink and peeled them with a butter knife, creating a spiral of orange rind that she ran through the garbage disposal, releasing the scent into the whole kitchen. She ate them slowly and methodically, sometimes standing at the kitchen counter, sometimes sitting in the living room while watching cartoons with Tommen.

She carried the scent with her everywhere she went like a perfume, and trailed it behind her as she moved from kitchen to living room to library. Jaime made the mistake only once of of walking into the living room where she and Tommen were watching an episode of Tom and Jerry and blurting out "Did you just eat _another_ orange?"

Brienne, empty-handed and with no orange in sight, but still surrounded by some kind of scent-aura, had raised a single eyebrow in question and Jaime had awkwardly mumbled about how it smelled good, like oranges, before awkwardly retreating upstairs.

 

He had stood in the kitchen one morning with coffee cup and dry toast in hand and watched her peel one once, asked why she used a knife. He had never seen anyone else do it that way. It seemed...overly complicated...for a mere  _orange_.

She waved her fingers at him- what on another woman would be a coquettish wave, but on her was simply matter-of-fact. “My fingernails were always too short to break through the rind without it hurting. My grandfather taught me to do it like this.”

He very carefully did _not_ mention that there was something soothing in watching the careful movement of her hands and the knife, as she deftly maneuvered both in order to take the rind off in a single, long spiral.

 

Tommen watched the ritual as though it were an occult marvel, as though Brienne's hands were magic. He could barely peel his clementines with his tiny chubby fingers and nearly nonexistent nails. As a four year old, knives were still forbidden objects. To Tommen, Brienne _was_ magic, and she allowed him to sit on the counter and watch every morning, wide-eyed fascination plain on his face.

Jaime stole glances as he moved about the kitchen, ignoring Tyrion when he rolled his eyes and made fun of Jaime for his poorly-disguised interest.

 

 

Jaime asked her once why she didn’t buy oranges from the regular grocery store, why she insisted on buying the oranges from this very particular produce stand. The same one, every time. She shrugged, as though it were the most natural thing in the world to go out of her way for something as mundane as oranges.

“They’re just better: juicier, sweeter. The membrane between segments is thinner, so they don’t taste as bitter.”

Sometimes as she pulled the segments apart that tenuously thin membrane split, sending rivulets of juice over her hands and down her wrists. She would then distractedly duck her head down to lick the juices away, completely unaware of the erotic nature of the movement.

Jaime did not understand why she never just grabbed a _paper towel_. But he did not suggest one either.

 

 

He tried, once, to peel his own orange with a butter knife.

But he could not seem to perfect the slow, smooth movement, the gentle adjustments needed from his wrist to do it properly. The rind came off in misshapen chunks, and in his growing frustration he managed to rip off most of the orange’s outer surface, juice flowing over his hands and down his forearms. He sucked some of it off, trying to keep it from reaching the rolled-up cuffs of his oxford shirt--the one he was supposed to wear to the office this morning, the one he needed to wear out the door in less than ten minutes if he wasn't going to be late.

A paper towel fluttered in the corner of his vision, proffered by a pale, long-fingered hand. Brienne was looking not at him, but at the mutilated orange in his hand and the chunks of orange peel littering the sink.

She gave a small, but not unkind shrug. “You have to be more patient. Otherwise you'll just destroy it.”

 

The next time she came in early enough to see him in action. He had only been at it for ten seconds when she reached out and stilled his hands. “You aren’t gripping the knife right— you need more control, otherwise you’ll just keep ripping it apart.” Brienne wrapped her hands around his own, adjusted his fingers on the knife, extending his index finger along the top edge and angling his wrist. She guided the first few motions before letting go, the loss of warmth and stability more palpable that he would have guessed. He was better, but still could not seem to replicate the hypnotic ease of movement she displayed a few minutes later when peeling her own orange.

Maybe Tommen was right. Maybe she really was magic.


End file.
